Chapter 9: Arcmire

A light tapping on my skull wakes me. The barrel against my head is cool, its metal edge biting into my forehead. I look over at Papa, who also has a blunderbuss pointed at him. Several bandits stand in a circle around us. It feels like we’ve only been asleep for only a moment, but the sun is bright, and our fire has dwindled to nothing more than embers.

The bandits seem to be everywhere—digging through the cart, searching the boulders for others, standing nearby and laughing at us. It seems like there are a dozen of them, but I know there can’t be more than five or six. One bandit has a scarred eye, and he squints at us through his good one while barking orders.

“Stay calm,” Papa says, his voice steady despite the weapon pressed to his temple. “Don’t do anything rash.”

I sit up and look around, the barrel no longer pressed against my head. I realize a few other people standing nearby. Prisoners, looking thin and defeated with lock-collars around their necks. The bandit holding the blunderbuss on me leans in close and sniffs my hair, smiling. His wretched breath escapes between yellow-stained teeth and I gag.

“It will be fine, Neeka,” Ambrose says, noticing my anxiety. He smiles at me from where he sits with his back against a large rock, a short blade pressed against his neck. The bandit holding it searches Ambrose’s pockets for treasure.

“Get those two locked up and hooked to the other prisoners,” the one-eyed bandit says, pointing his stubby finger at Papa and myself.

“What about legless here?” asks the bandit next to Ambrose.

“Dead weight,” replies the one-eyed bandit.

The bandit stands and slides the blade, in one quick motion, across Ambrose’s throat. Blood flows freely as a strange, airy sound escapes the mortal wound. It’s like it isn’t happening. The moment feels like a dramatic performance, and they’re going to tell me, at any moment, that none of this is real. But it is real.

I scream and crawl over to Ambrose. I look into his face, his expression slack, his eyes searching for something invisible. He turns to me with a pitiful gaze, and then…he relaxes. I hold him in my arms, sobbing. Just hours ago, we were sharing jokes by the fire, and now—just like that—another friend taken from me.

When I feel the steel collar clamp around my neck, the anger I felt for Solomon, the same anger I felt toward the bandits at the drop site, floods through me. I turn and kick the blood-soaked blade out of the hand of the man who killed my friend. I move with lightning speed and another kick shatters his calf. He drops like a rock. Blood runs down his boot and as he pulls back the leg of his pants, the source of blood is revealed. Bone has ripped through the skin, its jagged tip pointing horizontally as if giving us directions to some ghoulish destination.

The other bandit jerks on the pole connected to my collar to restrain me, but I somersault over the pole and kick him hard in the face. Blood sprays across the group like graffiti paint and he falls to the ground unconscious, likely dead.

“Hey, hey, hey! You might want to rethink your next action,” the one-eyed bandit says, holding a blunderbuss to Papa’s head.

The knowledge that he will kill Papa as thoughtlessly as his fellow bandit killed Ambrose stings me into submission. I calm myself as another bandit grabs the pole and connects it to the collar of another prisoner. Three other prisoners stand in front of me, all separated by a six-foot pole that keeps them a little more than arm’s reach from one another. Papa’s pole is connected to my collar and we stand there in single file.

Caught—like fish on a trot line.

The boss reaches down and feels the neck of the bandit I kicked in the face.

“He’s dead!” he says, almost smiling. He turns to me, pleased. “Maybe you’ll fetch more than I first thought.”

He ties my hands together with a leather strap and repeats the process with Papa.

“Let’s go, boys,” he yells. “And don’t forget the cart.”

“Wait boss.” The bandit with the shattered leg tries to stand but stumbles to the ground. “What about me?” he whimpers.

“Dead weight,” says the one-eyed bandit and shoots the injured man dead. “Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

As we trudge through the wasteland, I study the three prisoners in front of me. Two are scrawny men, their bodies withered from starvation. The one in front is the big bruiser from our group on the airship. His massive shoulders slump forward, but there’s still power in his stance. I wonder if he recognizes me.

I try to whisper to Papa but one of the bandits hears me.

“Shut your hole little girl before your Papa becomes dead weight.”

The threat silences me, but my mind races. Every step takes us further from Eden, further from my revenge against Solomon. Yet somehow, I know this detour is just another test, another obstacle to overcome.

After four grueling hours, something rises from the earth at the horizon. As we draw closer, I make out a settlement. A few insignificant buildings surround what looks like a large arena at the center. Everything is cobbled together from scrap metal, weathered wood, and other scavenged materials—a monument to survival built from the remnants of civilization.

Three men emerge from the settlement’s gates to meet us. Their clothes are finer than the bandits’—clean leather and brass fittings instead of tattered rags—but their faces are just as cruel.

“Back so soon?” the tallest one calls out, a brass-handled blade hanging at his hip. “Usually takes you longer to round up fresh meat.”

“Got lucky,” the one-eyed bandit responds. “Found these ones already gathered up nice and neat. Plus a bonus.” He jerks his thumb toward the tow cart.

The shortest of the three circles our chain of prisoners, studying us like livestock. His eyes linger on my proths. “Interesting. Very interesting. The big one’s obviously fighter material, but this one…” He taps my mechanical leg with his boot. “Could be entertaining.”

“She’s already killed two of my men,” the one-eyed bandit boasts.

The tall one laughs. “Two of your men? That’s not saying much.”

A roar erupts from the arena, followed by the sound of metal striking metal. The crowd cheers wildly, their bloodthirsty excitement carrying across the settlement. Something heavy hits the ground inside, and a single voice cries out in pain before being silenced.

“What is this place?” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

“Quiet,” one of the guards snaps, but I barely hear him. I’m too focused on the sights and sounds around me. The stench of blood and sweat mingles with cooking fires and rotting garbage. Scrap metal creaks in the hot wind, and somewhere nearby, someone is sobbing.

“The Fat Man’s going to want to see this bunch right away,” the third guard says, finally speaking up. His voice is surprisingly gentle, which somehow makes him more terrifying. He walks over to the bruiser at the front of our chain. “Look at the size of this one. Might make up for the champion we lost in yesterday’s bout.”

They lead us through the gates and into the main building. The corridor is dark and narrow, the walls made of corroded metal sheets riveted together. Our footsteps echo off the uneven floor, mixing with the distant sounds of combat and cheering crowds. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, and the air grows thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and fear.

We’re herded into a large holding area lit by oil lamps that cast jumping shadows on the walls. Other prisoners sit or stand in small groups, some bearing fresh wounds, others old scars. A few look up as we enter, but most keep their eyes down.

“Wait here,” the tall guard commands. “I’ll fetch the Fat Man.”

As we stand waiting, Papa moves closer to me. I can feel him trembling slightly, though his voice remains steady when he whispers, “It’s okay sweety. It’s just another one of life’s challenges to overcome.”

Another roar erupts from the arena, followed by thunderous applause. Whatever entertainment the Fat Man provides in this place, I have a feeling we’re about to become part of it.